


HAPPY NEW YEAR

by swimmingfox



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 2016, 2017, Banter, Brexit, Cosmopolitans!, David Bowie - Freeform, Drunk!Sansa, Drunkish!Sandor, F/M, New Year's Eve, New Years, Whisky!, happy new year, prince - Freeform, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 22:51:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9145645
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swimmingfox/pseuds/swimmingfox
Summary: Sansa is aiming for a better 2017. She will absolutely not get drunk at Robb's party and will absolutely not meet a lovely large man who will take her mind off her 2016 break-up and there will absolutely not be shenanigans.A 2016/2017 New Year's Eve/New Year's Day Modern AU one-shot. BRITISH. CONTEMPORARY.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SnowWhiteKnight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SnowWhiteKnight/gifts).



> For SnowWhiteKnight, as this was inspired by her own li'l one-shot on Tumblr, where she was responding to a prompt about well-drunk SanSan. I intended them both to get embarrassingly drunk but it didn't quite get there...
> 
> ***
> 
> Minor trigger warnings for Brexit mentions, HAHAHAHA.

**2016**  


**Sansa / 8.12pm**

‘We are gonna get wasted,’ said Arya, who was currently slicking on so much purple eyeshadow that it looked like she’d been knocked out by Nicola Adams.

‘No we are not,’ said Sansa, who was standing next to her and currently applying lipstick the colour of postboxes, her glass of red wine balanced on the sink.

‘Spoilsport,’ her sister said, managing to elbow her whilst still staring into the mirror. ‘It’s fucking New Year. It’s the point.’

‘It’s not the point,’ said Sansa, ignoring the jabbing elbow as she evened her lips together. ‘I am older than that and better than that, even if you aren’t.’

‘We are drinking away the shitdom of 2016,’ said Arya, digging in her bag. ‘Have you seen my deodorant? I stink.’

‘It’s for ushering in a new and positive-spirited 2017,’ said Sansa, leaning down to her own bag and handing her own spray to Arya. ‘I am going to be a totally classy and fabulous New Year party guest, even if you are not,’ she said, mostly to her own reflection. She was definitely looking forward to seeing the back of 2016.

‘Final touch,’ said Arya. ‘Chuck me your eyeliner.’

***

**Sansa / 10.33pm**

‘This party is the best party _ever_!’ shouted Sansa, who was on her fourth Cosmopolitan, or an attempt at a Cosmopolitan made by a sweet round-cheeked gentleman in the kitchen whom Arya kept wiggling her eyebrows at. 

She was absolutely not drunk, just having a total blast alongside all of Robb’s crazy friends, dancing round the living room to Christine and the Queens, playing some sort of stupid Guess The Celebrity game (the tone kept being lowered by Theon, who only put in the names of porn actors that no one knew but him, and raised rather too high by Sam, who only put in the names of Blue Labour-affiliated politicians and Romantic poets), and walking very quickly by Joffrey and his gross cronies who were snorting coke off each other’s thumbs. 

‘You need to get out more,’ said the large man leaning on the mantelpiece next to her, looking very much like he thought that this party was the worst party he’d ever been to.

She leaned up to him again. He was so utterly and extremely tall, even though she had her badass come-get-me-2017 heels on – he was essentially Goliath or the giant at the end of the beanstalk. He smelt a bit like leather that had been laid out in the sun for fifty years. And whisky, the one he was swilling in the glass in his hand. And like he needed her deodorant. ‘ _Rude_ ,’ she said, quite firmly, and prodded him in the arm, a sensation that was a little like poking a steel pole. She prodded him again, just to check.

The man cleared his throat. ‘You’re one drunk young lady.’

‘I’m not drunk. I’m just very happy.’

‘Because?’

She sighed and leant her back against the mantelpiece next to him, watching Robb and Missandei and Tyrion and Gilly put their hands up in the air. ‘Because 2016 is almost over.’

‘Not a good year for you?’

She stared at him. ‘Are you kidding me? Syria, refugees, like _everyone_ dying, David Bowie and Prince and George Michael, ugh, Brexit, blrghgh, Trump, ultimate horrendous yuk.’ Another affirmative prod to his sensationally firm upper arm, before she glared up at him. ‘If you were a Leave voter, I may have to kill you.’

The large man with the long hair and beard and the spooky scars and the black shirt – but was it silver? It seemed to be silver in the light – looked at her, and there was the slightest curl at the side of his mouth. ‘Give me some fucking credit.’

‘Oh thank god,’ she said. ‘I would have had to cease this conversation with immediate effect and that would have been a crying shame.’ She raised an eyebrow. 

He stared at her before giving a dark laugh that was mostly breath. ‘And _your_ year? Not all the political bollocks.’

‘Um,’ she said, rubbing her finger around the rim of her cocktail glass, which was mystifyingly empty. ‘Not spectacular.’ A quick glance up to him. 

He raised his eyebrows. He hadn’t taken his huge elbow off the mantelpiece. He was just one big, hefty and ginormous _lean_. 

‘In that my boyfriend of three years split up with me and now has an sexy older girlfriend and they are moving to Dubai and therefore everything sucks.’ 

‘Nice of you to call her sexy.’

‘She _is_ sexy. Everyone thinks so.’ Blonde, fabulous in blue, moving into politics, basically the queen of everything. ‘Ugh, anyway, I don’t want to talk about that. What about you and your 2016? Also, what is your name and who do you know here? And do you work out? I mean, clearly you do work out, but, um.’ She looked at him. ‘Yes.’

‘I need another drink to answer all that, Woman Who Apparently Is Not Drunk.’

Sansa pointed at his glass, now empty. ‘What’s that?’

‘Scotch.’

‘I shall fill you up,’ she said, before prodding him, this time in the chest, which was equally plinth-like. ‘Do _not_ leave,’ she said, like a queen of everything in the world who always got what she wanted. ‘I will be back in exactly two seconds.’

***

**Sandor / 10.47pm**

The pissed-up girl returned with over half a tumbler of whisky and a sway like Marilyn Monroe on a P&O ferry during a stormy crossing. ‘Jesus Christ,’ he said, looking at the whisky glass. ‘You _are_ trying to kill me.’

‘Is this not right?’ she said, her eyebrows pulling downwards, only serving to make her more preposterously cute and sexy. He had noticed her as soon as she’d sashayed into the room and hugged her brother and most of the other guests with a smile as wide as the damned sky, hair in a high ponytail, arse like – well, he’d never seen an arse like hers.

Sandor laid a finger horizontally against the bottom of the glass. ‘This is a measure, you daft woman. Have you not drunk whisky before?’

‘I am more of a Cosmopolitan girl,’ she said, grandly. Soon enough she’d be waving her arms about in front of some other chump. He might as well enjoy the show.

‘Of course you are,’ he said, dryly, before holding his drink out. ‘Try that.’

The girl took it back from him and glugged a serious gulp of the stuff before he could stop her, proceeding to cough as if her lungs were breaking free. ‘Oh my god.’ She put an elbow on his shoulder and doubled over. ‘Wow. You are such a _man_ , drinking that stuff. I could never take it.’ Then she straightened, her expression totally changing. ‘By which I mean –’ and she arched one of those perfect amber eyebrows, gazing into the distance. ‘Peaty, a touch of toffee, probably an Islay malt.’ Slid her eyes over to him. 

Well, that was him told. ‘So you _do_ know how to pour a whisky?’

She finally removed her elbow. ‘Of course I do. I’m just trying to get you drunk.’ She passed his glass back and tapped the bottom. ‘Chop chop. Down the hatch. You’ve some catching up to do.’

He took a sip.

‘Oh my god,’ she said. ‘Ten times adorable.’

He glanced up to see her looking towards the kitchen, where some red-faced boy in a T-shirt with storm troopers on it was chatting to a short-arsed girl with _HNY BITCHES_ written on her face.

Obviously it wasn’t himself she’d be referring to. He gave her exactly five minutes before she was off leaning on someone else.

***

**Sandor / 11.31pm**

He did feel a shade less morose about being here at this shite party. He hated New Year, the idea that everything could change on the tick of a second hand, when in fact the world just kept on shooting itself in the fucking foot over and over again. But it was OK, people just chatting, people outside in the garden, decent tunes and nobody had swiped his whisky and – fuck. He was drunk.

‘But seriously, I was always well snobby about it. But it’s genius. It’s about people. It’s like a slice of Britain, it’s not really about telly at all. Genius.’

Amazingly, even though there were guys here that were far skinnier, younger, shorter, less scarred, less misanthropic, this girl – Sansa, Robb’s oldest sister – was still here, sitting next to him on the sofa, shouting in his ear over the music, ranting on about Le Front National and fascism in Holland, and it was quite sweet really, even though she kept dropping in other stuff about Miley Cyrus and Gogglebox. She’d drunk another cocktail and now he’d poured her a whisky.

‘I am never watching that shite, no matter what you say,’ he said.

‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Be like that, Mister I Know Best. Anyway, you didn’t finish my questions.’ Her legs were crossed towards him, one silver heel against his calf.

‘You didn’t ask, Miss Spanish Inquisition.’ 

She gave him a pouty frown and he wanted to eat her fucking face off. ‘Who do you know?’

‘Your brother. He works in the office next door.’

‘Oh, ok.’

He’d already told her his job, project managing for architects, and showed her a couple of photos on his phone of the wackier builds some clients had gone for, turrets out to sea and bloody pyramids. She’d leant against him, one long side of cranberry and lime-scented _girl_ against his ribs. He’d crossed his legs and hoped for the best.

‘2016? Good? Bad?’

He sat back. Tried not to think about it. ‘OK.’ He felt Sansa's eyes on him, two burning fucking boreholes, and finally looked back at her.

‘Not very forthcoming,’ she said, in that same voice that she probably thought was Prime Suspect detective woman but was actually just plain fucking drunk. 

He raised his eyebrows at her. 

She sat up. ‘I am going to get to know you,’ she said, firmly, and stood up, which meant unfolding one long leg and then the other and teetering slowly to her feet, as if she was steadying herself on a tightrope. ‘Come.’

***

**Sansa / 11.55pm**

It was cooler out in the garden. She’d been starting to feel a little flushed, though it was partly due to the seriously sexy eyebrows of the Grown-Up Man that she was still successfully and fabulously chatting up. She kept telling him to do things, like drink all that whisky that she’d hilariously poured him and answer her questions and come out to the garden and he did them. It was brilliant. 

‘Resolutions,’ she said. 

‘Nope,’ he said. 

‘Liar.’

‘Not my style.’

‘Making resolutions or lying?’

‘Neither.’

‘Fine. Don’t you want to know mine?’

‘Not really.’

‘To not just sign petitions but actually do some proper positive action. Like, join a political party. Not sure which one, though. Women's Equality Party, maybe. To change my job because my job is shit. To eat less cheese.’

‘You look like you eat exactly the right amount of cheese,’ he said.

She furrowed one eyebrow and pointed at him. ‘Oi. Are you saying I am fat?’

‘No. Stop bloody prodding me.’

He’d loosened up a bit, too. He kept giving this dark laugh before he’d hide his face in his whisky again, and he was so utterly unlike beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, serious, worthy, mopey, annoying Jon that she couldn’t stop looking at him and his dark, scarred, serious, sexy, gorgeous, beautiful face.

‘You are very big,’ she said. 

‘You are very ginger,’ he said.

She pushed him in the shoulder and he absolutely did not stagger back into the trellis as she’d hoped. ‘Take that back. I am amber. Auburn. Russet. I am not and will never be ginger.’

‘You’re as ginger as bloody Geri Halliwell,’ he said, grinning. ‘As Annie. As –’ he squinted up at the three stars in the night sky. ‘Who’s that lad from Harry Potter?’

‘I am _not_ like Ron Weasley!’ she said, it mostly coming out as outraged squeak. ‘You are unbelievably insulting. I was being _nice_ to you,’ she said. 

‘You said I was big. That’s like saying this house is made of bricks, or stars are in the sky, or we’re all fucking going to hell in a handcart.’ 

‘Fine. You’re _nicely_ big,’ she said. ‘Very nicely big. Excellent stature. Good physique. Strapping. Appealing.’

‘And you’re very nicely ginger,’ he said, with a grin. 

‘Fuck you extremely,’ she said and stuck two fingers up at him. ‘Fuck you and fuck 2016.’

‘Aye, you’ve right got it in for 2016,’ he said. 

‘2016 had it in for me,’ she said. ‘This year is going to be only awesome and filled with awesome people who do not leave me to move to Dubai and become ambassadors and live in swanky gold-walled rooms.’

‘Sounds very sensible.’

Inside, Theon was shouting that there was a minute to go until midnight.

Arya was currently dragging that lovely young man from the kitchen over the patio and towards the garden shed. Sam and Gilly were actually holding hands as they went back into the house, which was serious progress for them. Tyrion was chatting up Missandei, who was actually giggling and telling him jokes back, her hand on her chest. Serious coupling was occurring and she was not going to be left out. 

‘Leonard Cohen or George Michael?’ she said.

He looked surprised for half a second. ‘George Michael.’

‘ _Hallelujah, hallelujah_ ,’ Sansa started crooning, her hands clasped. She was the best singer in the world, better than everyone, and he would be totally won over by her tremendously killer voice.

‘Do not start singing that fucking ubiquitous fucking song,’ said Sandor. ‘I grew up in the eighties. I’m allowed to say George Michael.’

‘Bowie or Prince?’

‘Bowie.’ 

‘ _Nooo_ ,’ she said. ‘No way. _Tonight we’re gonna party like it’s twen-ty sev-en-teen_ ,’ she sang, to the tune of 1999, stepping a little nearer to him.

‘Doesn’t do it for me,’ he said.

Inside, Robb was beginning a countdown.

‘ _Little red Corvette_ ,’ she sang, shimmying her hips in coquettish, Corvette-ish style, two inches closer to him.

‘If you say so,’ he said, remaining unmoved.

‘ _Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh-duh_ ,’ Sansa half-sang, doing a spiky air guitar strum. ‘ _Kiss_.’ She’d leant forward, sexy Prince-style shoulders, and when she’d opened her eyes and caught his it was suddenly as if an electric guitar was playing one chord right through her and he’d taken her elbow and their bodies were suddenly together, and her mouth was on his and his mouth on hers, and in her head the jangly, stuttering guitar was still playing just as the partygoers all shouted ‘ZERO!’ and there were cheers and kazoos and Big Ben from the telly and Prince’s 1999 started up from the speakers.

Sandor opened his eyes, his lips still on Sansa’s. She started laughing. 

‘Shut it, you,’ he said, and kissed her again.

***

**2017**

**Sansa / 12.11am**

They had been kissing – outright, full-on, hands all over each other, tongues wrangling, _snogging_ – for about three hours and her mouth hurt. Sansa pulled away and looked at him. ‘I would very much like to know what you look like naked,’ she said. 

‘Right then,’ he said.

***

**Sandor / 12.13am**

‘Wow.’

Sandor was standing stark bollock naked on the shower mat. He’d expected to take her home or back to hers or something, but no – she’d dragged him right upstairs, to the bathroom, and locked the door. Leant back on it. Nodded at him. Given him a thumbs up.

He was so pissed. And so ridiculously turned on. He was like an extra towel rail. 

‘ _Hallelujah, halle_ –’ she started singing again, very quietly, before grinning at him. 

He wasn’t going to be the only one without a stitch on. He came up to her, put his fingers to the edges of her top, pressed against her a little bit. ‘Oh my god,’ she said. 

‘You haven’t had the half of it,’ he said.

***

**Sandor / 12.17am**

There was someone knocking on the door. ‘Serious emergency,’ called a girl. 

‘Almost done,’ said Sansa, who was hoisted up against the sink, her leg up on the bath, her cheeks every different colour of red – not ginger – that he could think of. Except mostly he was trying to move inside her incredibly quietly, whilst wanting to shout his head off because this felt fucking amazing. 

‘Is that you, Sansa?’ called the girl outside.

‘No,’ she said back.

‘Argh,’ said the girl outside, and the sound of stomping back down the stairs. ‘I’m going to use the kitchen bloody sink.’

‘Fuck,’ whispered Sansa, which was the sexiest and most poetic thing that she could have possibly said right then. ‘Fuck fuck fuck.’

‘ _Are_ you almost done?’ he said, very quietly. 

‘Oh fuck,’ she said, staring at him and arching her back, and he could see her shoulder blades in the mirror. ‘Fuck fuck fuck fuck.’ And he watched the bones in her back move as if they wanted to split the skin, and bit on his tongue as he came.

***

**Sansa / 12.19am**

He was sitting on the side of the bath, having just pulled his pants on, and his chest looked like it had been slapped. 

‘Fuck,’ she said, as it was still the only thing she was capable of expressing, what with her brain currently dribbling out of her vagina. 

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That’s about right.’ He was eyeing her from under those totally brilliant eyebrows of his, and she liked the way that the right one was pulled down a bit from his scars. ‘Fancy coming back to mine? Or are you done?’

‘I am so not done,’ she said, finally remembering other words. ‘So totally undone. Fuck.’

‘OK,’ he said, as if she was a patient at the mental hospital. ‘I’m not far. Cab’ll get us there in ten minutes.’

‘Absolutely yes please,’ she said, as he passed over her bra.

***

**Sansa / 1.59am**

‘ _Cream_ ,’ Sansa was singing, because Prince was brilliant, and 2017 would be brilliant. ‘ _Get on top_.’

‘Go on then,’ Sandor said, currently above her and with his extremely-2017-penis against her thigh.

It had taken an hour to get a taxi and half an hour to get to his flat, what with it being New Year’s, and she had slept a bit on his shoulder and by the time they arrived felt pretty damned awesome again and it had taken them roughly one minute and ten seconds to move from his front door to being almost entirely unclothed on his bed.

The room swooned a bit as he rolled over and put his hands on her hips, moving her on top of his preposterously wide thighs. ‘Oh Lordy me,’ she said. ‘I think you are something special.’

‘You’re just saying that because you’re pissed.’

‘I’m not. You are lovely. The whole length of you. All the lengths of you.’ Sansa carefully lifted herself, and wriggled a bit, and hovered above him, just touching. ‘I give you exactly one minute.’

It was Sandor’s turn to forget all words but one.

***

**Sandor / 2.12am**

‘ _And I’m floating in a most peculiar way_.’

He gazed over at her, at the beautiful, knackered form lying next to him on her back, one leg hooked over his knee. Turned the light on to get a better look.

Sansa shrank as if poisoned, her hands over her face, curling up. ‘ _And the stars look very different today-ay-ay-ay_.’ Her voice was tiny, wispy, and pretty much perfectly in tune.

‘Do you ever stop singing?’

‘I am the nicest sort of drunk,’ she said. ‘Not gloomy drunk, or morose drunk, or poetic worthy change the world drunk, like _some_ people I know –’ she didn’t seem to be referring to him – ‘but _singing_ drunk.’ She beamed at him, the cat that got the cream.

Jesus Christ, she was glorious. It was like 2016 had been the greatest fucking dump, a massive big shite on the world, and yet this one thing had come out of it, smelling of roses. And sex. Smelling mostly of him, actually. 

‘Hmm,’ said Sansa, and turned her head on the pillow to gaze at him, suddenly rather seriously. ‘Hmm.’

He just watched her, this long cool glass of cosmopolitan fucking loveliness. Raised an eyebrow.

‘I think I am going to be sick,’ she said.

***

**Sandor / 9.10am**

‘My saviour,’ Sansa said, in the voice of a frog with a head cold.

He put her cup of tea on the bedside table and got back into bed. For all her throwing up last night, her slow, shuddering sobering up hadn’t seemed to stop her wanting to be here. He felt all the points of her against him – heel against his thigh, elbow by his ribs, strands of hair against his neck.

‘Make me tea forever,’ she said, and put the duvet over her head. 

OK, he thought.

‘I am going to sleep for ten thousand years,’ she said, from under the duvet.

‘You do that,’ he said, and wished his head didn’t feel like it was about to break into pieces.

***

**Sansa / 10.33am**

‘I’ve made a new year’s resolution,’ she said.

She hadn’t slept any more, just listened to Sandor breathing heavily and gazed at a couple of messages from Arya, who was making jokes about what was under a storm trooper’s uniform, which she didn’t quite understand. She looked at Jon’s Facebook page again, where she’d already seen him and Dany in front of some ridiculous moneyed skyscraper and loads of fireworks in the background. Ugh. 

‘What’s that?’ he said, stirring again, having just muttered something about five coffees.

‘To not let a single drop of alcohol pass my lips ever again.’

He gave a sleepy amused grumble and put his arm out for her to rest her head on. ‘I’ve made one too,’ he said, a few minutes later.

She was sure that he’d said something last night about not being into resolutions, but then some parts of the night were a little lens-misty. ‘Yeah?’ she said. 

‘To ask you out.’

A warmth stronger than caffeine and sugar, spreading through her. ‘Go on, then.’

His fingers were in her hair, his voice low in her ear. ‘Come out with me.’

‘Done.’ She rolled over, her chin on his chest, reached down, and for the next thirteen minutes and twenty-six seconds, she felt really rather a lot less hungover. 

‘My year is going excellently so far,’ she said, afterwards. ‘How’s yours?’

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I think this one might be ok.’ And grinned at her.

**Author's Note:**

> UGH. What does swimmingfox do when she's ill in bed? WRITES MORE FANFIC, THAT'S WHAT. Written from the depths of my sick bed on New Year's Eve/Day. HNY, BITCHES!
> 
>    
>  **BRITISH NOTES:**
> 
>  
> 
> [ Nicola Adams, one of my many Rio 2016 crushes!](http://www.nicola-adams.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> PS Tell me how you celebrated! I'd love to know. I dragged myself onto the balcony to watch London's fireworks.


End file.
